


Blue Plate Special

by kerning



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boxing, Alternate Universe - Diners, Alternate Universe - Historical, Diners, Food, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-16
Updated: 2018-09-10
Packaged: 2019-05-07 16:07:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14674620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kerning/pseuds/kerning
Summary: Gerome left a decent tip, three dollars, sometimes four, far more than Inigo would offer up for two crappy mugs of diner coffee at the end of the day. But he stayed exactly half an hour, gone from his usual seat as if a specter, the proof of his existence his money and his motorcycle, black and chrome, like a banshee down the street.





	1. Draw One in the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! As always comments/kudos appreciated, so nothing else to say here except Inigo's trying to offer a whole ass meal when Gerome is the real snack all along!

                Syrup-sticky children’s menus returned to their caddy, Inigo scrubbed at a patchy food stain on the diner bar, only sign of its patron a skinny tip. Screaming children, coffee stains, the greasy steam an alluring perfume to seduce expanding waistlines. Every day, he ate a bagged lunch until boredom from sandwiches claimed him too. Still, the white noise from clinking dishes and over-the-door bell ringing intermittently hummed over his skin, routine all the same, all the time, until the sun angled its orange light through the blinds in a thousand lines over the speckled tables.

                It’s not true, and Inigo knew this was an illusion, that the bell should sound different when Gerome walked through the door but he looked up at the jingle anyway. It’d taken him two weeks to get a name and another to lay rest the suspicions his jumpsuits weren’t really those of a mechanic at all. But then again, Inigo’s imagination tended to roam when it willed itself. And Inigo was very willful.

_Coffee, black._

Gerome had the look of a man who only drank his coffee that way. Not that it would stop Inigo from dropping by with a tiny dish of sugar. If only to linger. An excuse to seem like a better employee than he was. And another to have Severa elbow him in the ribs after Gerome left, annoyed she had to fend for her tables herself, the pain of it clearing his head a bit.

                Why Inigo was so fascinated was beyond him; curiosity, yes, but more than that it left his sense memory recalling motor oil and a scent that must have been cologne. Gerome left a decent tip, three dollars, sometimes four, far more than he would offer up for two crappy mugs of diner coffee at the end of the day. But he stayed exactly half an hour, gone from his usual seat as if a specter, the proof of his existence his money and his motorcycle, black and chrome, like a banshee down the street.

                Today is no different than any other, like a play Inigo recited his lines as perfectly as he could. “Can I get you anything— refill?” But he’s an understudy in his role, pursuing spotlight as he retrieved the pot from its hotplate.

                Gentle steam wafted from the dark whirlpool as he poured.  Gerome’s fingers, the nails trimmed and clean of dirt, grip the mug handle. Gerome thanked him, and Inigo’s feet carry him away, not thinking of how Gerome’s hands don’t match how Inigo imagined tinkering with jalopies all day would go. Yet he hovered around the bar, passing a few heavier plates through the window to their remaining tables. It’s a slow hour.

                And Inigo strayed again, stumbling over his words. “Sure you wouldn’t like anything else?”

                “Oh.” Gerome blinked at him, like he’d forgotten the question already. “No, I’m fine… What, what would you suggest?”

                The chef’s special. It’s what he should say, but it’s both a hassle to prepare and carry, there’s no guarantee one of the cooks won’t spit in it at this late hour. A hamburger, medium with an over easy egg. Inigo wheedled with the line cook to replace wilted lettuce with something slightly more vibrant, the plate gently scraping against the counter in front of Gerome.

                Shift almost up, Inigo patted down his stained apron, receipt book and pencil heavier than a Bible in his pocket. One brave bold notion, there and gone, ticked away with the descent of a mountain of starch.

                It’s the longest Gerome has ever been here.

                In the backrooms, Inigo lifted the apron from his neck, his face still hot from the smiley face he’d tacked onto the end of Gerome’s bill. Compared to his intentions it’s nothing, but embarrassment warps the exchange. Convinced the bus ride home will leave people leaning away, not only from the overwhelming scent of food clinging to him but somehow  sensing his secret shame, he shuffled out of the diner to wait by his stop.

                He went home, slept in his too narrow twin bed, only to wake up to do it all over again.

                Tomorrow is only a coffee. The same the next. It’s a terrible method of keeping time. Each day Gerome stays until his shift ends.

                After the burger debacle, Inigo has run out of lines.

 

* * *

 

 

                The door jingled shut behind him, he aches in too many places, his stomach one of them. Inigo, beset by a craving for his mother’s meatloaf, sighed aloud. Two stops, he eyed the payphone at the corner, but thought better of it. These days she was always home. He stood against the bus sign, not trusting himself to sit down and cede to the particular numbness his ride home usually incurred.

                Maybe that’s why he startled so, forced from his bland thoughts by the scream of an engine. He knows that sound. A dark line bisecting the glow of streetlamps for a second at a time as it blitzed past. Gerome cast him one spare glance. Not wearing the jumpsuit and in a white tee, the lights cut the muscles of his back deeper into shadow. He trails into the growing night with fading noise though his frame burns in afterimage behind Inigo’s eyelids.

 

* * *

 

 

                “It’s on the house.” Plastering on his customer smile, Inigo shook his head. “Really, it’s nothing, please.” Once he recognized a lost fight, Gerome calmed his protests, brooding into the depths of a chipped mug. He’s hefting a platter of sandwiches from his arms to tend to the remaining customers when his eyes are seized again, grimly polite smile flitting across Gerome’s face at being caught outright.

                Everything is as it was.

                Inigo screwed the lid back onto a full saltshaker, its resolute thunk onto the tabletop an echo of his footsteps.  The diner was nearly empty and Gerome hunkered over his cup as Inigo approached, wedging a ticket beneath the corner of his placemat.

                “Thought it was on the house...” Gerome faltered to his wallet, second glance turned up to Inigo.

                “It is.” Inigo tapped the scrap of paper decorated with a persistent happy face. “We have some plastic cups. If you want to take it with you. To go.” He watched Severa cram fistfuls of straws into their dispenser.

                “Uh. Yeah.” Palm upward, he waited expectantly. “Do you have a pen?”  
                Inigo dropped the stub of a pencil into his hand as his toes grew roots into the tiled floor while the pencil scratched across cheap paper. Gerome returned both items to him as he stood. Inigo unrumpled the paper and blinked at the address. This was around the corner.

                “If you want to stop by, Inigo,” paused by the register, he crammed a bill into the jar before snagging a few peppermints that squeak in their wrappers as they tumble into his pocket. “I’m always there.”


	2. Put Wheels On It

                Inigo shouldn’t be here on his day off, standing in front of the garage. And during daylight hours, no less, when the moths aren’t there to flock to bare bulbs, persistent clink of their bodies backdrop to hushed talks before Inigo took the last bus home. He held the takeaway bag in front of him as a shield, the paper sheer like stained glass. He rolled his shoulders, took a breath and walked into the bustling den of metal and sweat.

                At least he’s not in his uniform.

                Sleeves rolled up, Gerome locked eyes with him the moment he crossed the threshold, lips parted in a moment of confusion before tossing a wrench and an oil-streaked rag into the toolbox. “Hey, what are you doing here so early?”

                The contents of the bag rustled as he spoke, gesturing with his hands for emphasis. “You hadn’t come by the Astra lately, thought you could use some, ah, food?” His voice lilted into a question, internally mauling himself for the uncertainty.

                “Yeah, thanks.” Gerome’s hand froze outstretched before tapping against his thigh in a vain attempt to wipe away the labor of the day. He cleared his throat. “Let me just…”

                Gerome pounded on the office door, the blinds rattling. “Gregor, I’m taking a break.”

                “Since when you take break?” The booming voice grew louder as the door opened, revealing a craggy face and red curls tinged with grey. “Four months Gregor take you in, not once you—” His mouth split into a toothy grin as he caught sight of Inigo, who shifted from foot to foot under the scrutiny. “This the little one you talk so much over? Aye, early lunch break never hurt anymore, go.”

                A scowl marred Gerome’s features as he peeled out of his jumpsuit to the waist, its arms tied back. He squared his shoulders, elbow deep in the sink scrubbing his hands clean.

                Sunlight left them both squinting as they sank onto a bench away from the shop. “So, the little one?”

                Gerome made a prolonged show of unrolling the crumpled bag. “I had to tell him about you. And everyone’s little to him. You saw him.” Gregor was a mountain of a man, yet somehow Inigo doesn’t buy it as he talked around a limp fry. “Let him know someone else is in the shop after hours. Here, take the other half.”

                “Right, you wouldn’t want him to be uninformed.” Sly grin not diffused even after Gerome jostled him, Inigo balanced the lukewarm sandwich on his lap and they ate in the sunlight.

                Gerome finished first, stretching with an obscene groan, Inigo’s eyes peeling out of their sockets with an effort to stay present. Gerome tossed the bag into the nearby bin. “I’ve got to stop skipping breakfast.” Slunk back against the slats of the bench, Gerome’s head lolled with a contented sigh as he closed his eyes, patting at his stomach and unawares of how Inigo swallowed lightning.

                “Anytime, sure.” He stuttered over the words with staunch ignorance as his only rite and crumbled in roving eyes over the stained glass fragments of muscle underneath sweat-damp fabric. He blinked hard, little stars in his vision. There’s sauce on the corner of Gerome’s mouth. He’d tell him, after he forcibly choked down this last bite.

                “How are you not wasting away?” Almost prim about the gesture, Gerome swiped at his mouth, bordering on a smile. “I think I’ve eaten half your paycheck.”

                “I get by. And I don’t mind.” His smile was fighting valiantly to command his face. “It’s no big deal.”

                “Then make me a deal. Next time, no free food.” Gerome shifted forward. “I don’t want to be the reason your water gets cut.”

                “Deal.” They shook on it, tingles running up Inigo’s spine.

 

* * *

 

 

                Sans any misfired appetizers, Inigo returned to the garage. It’s a routine. Slamming his open palm against the cold metal face in warning, doing a limbo and finding his prize inside the shop. Gerome with his legs sticking out from under a behemoth, voice echoing in metal innards. Or as he was tonight, taking inventory, pen cap between his lips.

                “Gregor must trust you a lot.” Almost every night Gerome was in the shop, and Inigo’s noticed the flat silver key dangling from its ring.

                Gerome hummed, writing on a clipboard. He capped the pen, making his way toward the dark office. “He should, I won him plenty of money.” Snapping on the light, his shadow lengthened over the oil stained concrete.

                “What?” He squirmed on the hood of the car, trying to imagine how. “Did you clean dipsticks the fastest in a contest?” It sounded stupid, but honestly Inigo delighted in saying the word _dipstick_.

                Gerome snorted, closing the door behind him with a folding chair in tow. “No, I used to be a boxer.” Kicking the chair out and flipping it backwards before collapsing on it, Gerome grimaced. “Of sorts.”

                “Okay…” Inigo stared, acutely aware of his own breath skimming past his open mouth. His brain tried to jam this fact into the puzzle of Gerome only to discover most of the pieces were under the table. “Why’d you stop?”

                “Gregor was my manager. Just a side job for him. Gambling is his nature, on me.” Gerome’s hands balled into fists, tension gone the moment they loosened yet pent up in his expression. “This was the consolation prize.” He deflated, fissure of a frown still on his brow and wiping at his face before propping his head on his hand, glancing everywhere in the empty shop but Inigo.

                He breathed out patience.

                “At least you won something.” Inigo’s tone fizzled, pinched between the flex of his forearms and a sullen glare. Gerome with a black eye, bruises, seemed improbable not impossible. “You kept your face.”

                Gerome affixed him with a searching look, an unspoken acknowledgment in meeting him equally. “Do you even know how to throw a punch?”

                “I’m a lover not a fighter, Gerome.” Every bully in his life Inigo left with a bloody nose or busted lip crossed his mind flipbook fast. “You gave up just like that? Don’t you want it anymore?”

                “Well, I’m here now.” Gerome leaned back, chin tilted up in defiance. “And I drink a lot of coffee.”

                “Might be hard to believe but my dream wasn’t become a waiter.”

                He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “I keep money in my pocket this time.”

 _Time._ Dread crept and knelt before Inigo, loving the moment he tripped and fell. He swore under his breath, hopping off the hood. Missing the last bus wasn’t part of his plans. The impending long walk home loomed ahead like penance. Gerome assured he could take him home, not missing the skeptical glance Inigo cast toward his motorcycle.

                “She’s always taken care me, she’ll take care of you too.”

                Doubtful. “She have a name?” Better to know the name of what killed him.

                With the glittering flash of a key before it disappeared into his pocket, Gerome closed shop, the clank of the garage casters like a midnight train. Inigo hummed to himself, drowned out in the roar of the bike’s engine. Gerome motioned for him to get on and his nerves rose into his throat like a vise. He croaked out the directions.

                “Hold on.”

                He settled behind him but as far as he was concerned Gerome’s entire body was a minefield. Sweat and shampoo. He could die like this, outside himself as if watching from a hot air balloon, a tiny beacon in the pattern of the city. The night air whipped around them. He grazed Gerome’s shoulders, yet the merest lurch sent him in a blind panic for his torso. Solid steady beneath his hands and tugging at his shirt, in the gap between an open palm and a fistful of cotton, the bowl of Gerome’s stomach hollowed at the contact.

                Inigo’s legs quivered like a two-legged fawn and the cracked, uneven sidewalk never before seemed so inviting. However grateful for the poor lighting of his neighborhood, Gerome’s once over was as tangible as the body heat clinging to his arms. The motorcycle peeled away as he mechanically opened his apartment door.


	3. Wreck 'em

                Silencing its’ shrill ring in the night, Inigo picked up the phone receiver. Gerome greeted him like he changed his mind; sometimes on the weekend, Gerome called, phone ringing three times to fall to nothing, only to start again. But Inigo still felt busing tables and the rumble of Minerva’s engine in his thighs. Compressed by the wires of the phone, Gerome’s voice was smooth and warm. He hadn’t realized he lived so close.

                When he confessed as much, Gerome faltered. “Dropping you off isn’t a problem. So you shouldn’t mind either.”

                He nodded, catching himself, then agreed. Of course he minded.

                More nights than not Gerome took him home. Inigo usually filled the quiet of the garage with his own ramblings, Gerome cutting in at the right points of his stories. Strange and fulfilling to have a listening ear, how time passed differently mystified him. Inigo figured a quiet guy like him wouldn’t have much to say but listen. He found himself wrong on both accounts, witty in his own way, maddeningly stubborn at pushing a point across. And lately Inigo learned more about cars than he’d ever use in this life or the next. However parts of him grew accustomed to being looked after, it couldn’t, shouldn’t last. Bask in it for the moment.

                He kneaded the armrest of his lumpy couch, tuning back into their conversation.

                “—gym opens early, it’s off Gules and Emmerson. Saturday mornings are a good time to go, if you can make it?”

                “Sure I can.”  The candle in his chest snuffed out as he groaned in annoyance. Goodbye swiping speed bags to hello slinging hash. “But I promised to cover a shift for someone, breakfast and lunch. I get off in the afternoon.” If Gerome would’ve helped him correct his stance remained a mystery for the ages.

                “Rain check, some other time...” his voice phased in and out, he’d pulled his mouth away from the receiver. “I’ll hit a bag in your honor.”

                “As long as you don’t imagine my face on it.” He could burrow himself in his laugh, yet blankets would have to suffice. Jaw cracking into a yawn, the blood rushed in his ears and muffled Gerome. “What was that?”

                “I was saying have a good night, I—“ the pre-recorded voice of a woman asking to deposit another dime interrupted and he continued in a flustered rush. “I never get to. Say that.”

                “Good night.” Whispered to the abrupt droning tone, he dropped the receiver back in its’ cradle with a slow smile he carried to his bedroom.

 

* * *

 

                “Your punch is fine but keep your elbows in,” Gerome instructed, nudging at Inigo’s offending elbow. Two weeks later and their schedules finally aligned. “At least I didn’t have to tell you to untuck your thumb.”

                “I’m a fast learner.” With a smirk, Inigo glanced at the spotty mirror, their eyes meeting in the reflection amid shadow boxers and rocking heavy bags. He swung hard, the bag ricocheting on its spring.

                “Eyes on the bag.”

                Inigo kept his hands up, punching the bag into a gentler rhythm. “What, I can’t check out my opponent?”

                “We’re not opponents, I’d knock you out.”

                “You could have saved my pride a little.” Inigo made a face, blinking back the sweat threatening his eyes. “How do you know, I might surprise you.”

                “I’ve done this more than you.” The touch to his back was like an apology, gentle and lingering. This rundown gym changed something in Gerome, while he was hyperaware of touch and intent, Gerome seemed casual even slinging an arm over his shoulders when he arrived. It was driving him mad.

                “Logically speaking, yeah. But who said I would fight fair?”

                “Nothing I haven’t come across.”

                “I forgot you were basically a cowboy in the ring.”

                “You mean an outlaw, but I still followed rules,” Gerome muttered. “Even if no one else did.”

                No matter how he pressed, Gerome refused to divulge any details about past fights. That fact prodded Inigo’s work out to its limit, as if will and physical capability could break the dam withholding his secrets. Inigo had no designs on becoming a boxer, but Gerome watched with patience over him like he did.

                “I’m good here, promise.”

                He hesitated then clapped him on the shoulder. “Keep at it.”

                Sly in casually watching Gerome put on his gear and get warmed up with a skipping rope, Inigo buffeted his worn bag for a few minutes more. He needed a water break. The floorboards creaked under his feet as he stepped out into the hall. Neck on the swivel and certain he was alone, he mimicked the shadow boxers’ stance, wide with fists up. Light on his feet, he dodged an invisible fist, parried and jabbed at the air in retaliation. Again and again until he sighed. _This is not for me_. Gulping down water from the fountain, he set himself to rights, dipping his face in the stream before using the end of his shirt as a towel.

                He opened the paint-peeling doors, sucker punched by condensed sweat all over again. And Gerome smiling.

                He’s striking a heavy bag, combos of hits resounding in a flurry of dull thuds, but a man hovered near him, stooped over and speaking from the side of his mouth in conversation. There’s an ugly pair of scars across his eye and lip but a true kindness to his face as he lifted a hand in greeting.

                “That’s your guy, you gotta thing for coaching?” The man’s chin jutted out, studying him. “Unbelievable. Gregor’ll have a cow.”

                “No.” Gerome’s smile faded. “Brady, we’re here for the day.”

                Brady scoffed, “You say that now.”

                Inigo cleared his throat in lieu of introduction. “I’m just here for the exercise.”

                “No one comes here for the exercise,” Brady countered, flicking his gaze between the two of them, yet the words were solely directed at Gerome who steadied the bag with both hands until it went still.

                Inigo never handled prolonged silence well.

                “Uh, so how many titles do you have under your belt?” Ice itched at the sweat on his back,  dropping into the pit of Inigo’s stomach and flat lining his polite smile.

                “Whuzzat?” Brady laughed. “You think I’m a fighter, where’d you find this guy?!” Slapping at his knee like it was the funniest suggestion in the world, he collected himself using Gerome’s shoulder as a counterweight. “Buddy, when your friend here used to break skulls for cash—“

                Inigo’s eyes went as wide as dinner plates.

                “ _Brady_.”

                “Pulling his leg, you should see your face. Yer a pair. Like I was sayin’, he ran the ring, I ran the concession stand.”

                “That’s what you’re calling it,”  Gerome snorted, lifting an eyebrow. “More like pharmaceuticals.”

                “Technicality, pal.” He shrugged, heavy brows not quite shading his gaze towards the ring in the gym’s center. “Hey, just for old time’s sake, spar with that guy.” He jerked a thumb to the man in the small ring. Tall, blond and broad shouldered with a hooked nose clearly broken before, the man leaned against the post waiting for a challenger. Brady elbowed him in the side and received a flat expression in exchange. “Hurry up.”

                “Alright, alright.” He folded easily, ducking beneath the rope.

                “Can’t wait to watch you break a skull.” In the mirror, Inigo relished both the hint of pink colouring Gerome’s cheeks and the slow roll of his shoulders, shaking out his limbs.

                They tap gloves, Gerome putting up his fists, high to his chin and patient, defensive. The man swung, only connecting with the air over his head. Another telegraphed punch even Inigo could’ve seen coming and they grappled with one another in the ring, shoes shuffling against the worn surface. Gerome shifted his weight and landed a blow against his side. Second jab blocked by a ropy arm. They traded punches seemingly even.

                “Not one of these clowns could throw a punch like him.” Brady said, voice full of confidence. “How’d you get him back anyways?”

                “He invited me here.”

                “That’s new.” Brady clenched his jaw. “Can’t blame him for missing.”

                However long it’s been, Gerome doesn’t move like it. He slipped past the man’s guards, his chest, sides, and face all fair game. A feint paid off and the connecting hit compounded into the man’s collarbone. He staggered onto the ropes, seemingly brushing it off. Inigo flinched for him. But he doesn’t give up or give in, scuffling for a few more desperate strikes. Gerome planted his feet and a crimson spray arced over his twisted form.

                Clinched against the ropes with a swear, the man held his head back, his mouth tinged red. Not again. Gerome helped him up, Brady already on standby with a wad of gauze.

                “Let me do it, ya lug.”

                Coming from Brady, Inigo bit the inside of his cheek to keep a straight face.

                Brady patched him up with a thwack on the back. “Learn to keep yer fists up one day.” The second the man trudged away he turned his attention to Gerome. “Come on that ain’t a one-time thing, not after a fight like that.”

                “It’s enough.” He crossed his arms. “Why are you even here?”

                “I needta talk to Basilio, kids with promise down at the center could use the outlet. Like Libra always says, _things happen for a reason_ ….” Brady softened his voice, catching the eye roll at mention of his name. “Look, you could drop by every now and then, it’s all I’m sayin’.”

                “You’re still running around with those fools?” If Gerome was defensive in the ring, it’s nothing compared to this. “That’s why it’s a one day thing. What a shame of a thing to be good at.”

                They both watched as he stalked off to the locker room.

                “Still dramatic as ever.” He wound the gauze over on itself, tilting a crooked smile Inigo’s direction. “You’ll need all the luck you can get.”

 

                Cleaned up in a shirt that doesn’t stick to his skin, Gerome hooked an arm over Inigo’s shoulders, steps in sync crossing the street. Maybe it wasn’t just a gym thing. What strange rules he lived, the way of these deliberate touches. Inigo can’t bring himself to care. In fact, his arm belonged there in his opinion, mostly because his own muscles were aching already in a promise for a miserable tomorrow.

                “I didn’t mean to break that guys nose.” Gerome confessed. “How much did you hate it?”

                “Boxing is...” Inigo floundered for the word, giving in to what came to mind. “It’s like a dance.”

                “A dance?” Gerome drew him closer, whole body swaying with the movement. “And what do you know about dancing?”

                “Absolutely nothing.”


	4. Make It Cry

                On his knees in his play clothes, Ms. Lissa might smile at him for his good deed and Inigo wiped his face, blotting at sweat, dirt smudged in its wake. He’d given up the cumbersome trowel helping with the garden so much bigger than his mother’s victory patch, a bright bunch of flowers waiting in its pot to meet the earth. He peered into the hole. Cupping his hands around a worm writhing in a slimy loop, he dropped the creature just as quickly into the short grass as the screen door clacked shut. Owain bounded down the steps.

                “What happened to you?” Inigo grimaced at the white paste on his friend’s nose.

                “It’s armor, Mom said so.” Owain explained, puffing up. “Come on knave, now I’m going to be the best hero ever!”

                “You’re always the hero, I wanna be a hero too.”

                Exasperated, Owain shook his head. “We can’t both be heroes.”

                “Oh yeah?” That wasn’t fair, he’d show him.

                “Yeah!”

                “Watch me!” And he took off running, Owain hot on his heels. Tearing around the yard, he darted out of his grasp laughing. Owain nearly caught up but he leapt into a lawn chair. Smug and taunting with the safety of the “castle” in play, he shimmied in a victory dance and stuck out his tongue.

                “You swindler.” Owain pouted, already plotting revenge. “I wasn’t ready!”

                “You can be the knave no—” Inigo yelled, falling backwards from Owain’s tackle, weight tipping over the flimsy chair. Flailing in the scramble of limbs and battle cries, his elbow struck something soft. A click of teeth and then red. “O-Owain?”

                Inigo huddled over his friend half in the chair, half sprawled on the grass. Owain went as still as one of Ms. Lissa’s scary garden gnomes; shuddery breaths built in his chest and the hairline crack fractured, lungs wailing for all they’re worth. “I didn’t mean to, I- I’m sorry.” His own vision filling with tears, his voice blurred together. Over and over. He doesn’t hear the screen door swing open. He doesn’t hear the gasp of Owain’s mother, her soothing words. Only that he’s in trouble.

                He ran.

                Hiccupping through the indistinct shapes of houses and yards he rang the doorbell, trying to gather himself before the door swung open. Be brave. The knob rattled. He stumbled forward, wrapping his arms around his mother’s legs, sniffling into the wall of fabric.

                “Inigo, you were …  oh, sweetie, what’s wrong?”

                “Owain hates me!” Pried away from his shelter he sobbed into the open air.

                “I’ll call Lissa.” Mouth set in a determined line, she brushed the dirt and grass off his face. “Let’s get inside, why do you think he doesn’t like you anymore?”

                Distress won out. Inigo halted in fumbling with untying his shoes. “We were playing and I hurt him.”

                “On purpose?” Dropping to his eye level she urged him to speak; more tears coursed down his cheeks, her delicate touch thumbing them away.

                “No, it was a-an accident.” He crumpled, throwing his arms around her and burrowing his face in her chest. She smelled like powder and cinnamon.

                “My kind boy, of course it was. I’m sure Owain doesn’t dislike you, you two were such fast friends.” Rubbing his back in circles until his shoulders stopped shaking, she kissed the crown of his head. “You’re so worked up, the sun really is too hot out there. Come on, settle down.” After closing the curtains to the big bay window where she sometimes read on its’ pillowed bench, she took him by the hand into the living room, guiding him to the couch. The television was on, people were singing on its screen. “I don’t think any cartoons are on right now but let’s check.”

                He shook his head, kicking his stocking-clad feet. Quietly, his mother understood. She always had. The lead actresses’ skirt twirled around her ankles, her foot popping as she kissed the hero. They sat together, his mother carding fingers through his hair and Inigo pressed against her side. Now that every tear his small body could cry lay outside himself, he felt safe and drowsy watching people sing and dance with smiles etched on their faces. Unnoticed with his eyelids heavy, his mother tiptoed from the couch, voice drifting to him like a sweet dream.

                He rubbed the sleep from his eyes. The afternoon was nearly gone. _Owain wouldn’t want to play with him anymore_. Sulking until he washed up for dinner, Inigo picked over his food.

                “I talked to Owain’s mother, he just bit his lip and a loose tooth fell out,” his mother began, unaware of the lurch to Inigo’s stomach. “He’s fine darling. He’ll have a story about the tooth fairy when he comes over tomorrow.”

                The news he hadn’t broken his best friend increased his appetite. And of course he had room for a slice of homemade pie. He’s scraping crumbs off the saucer when his father spoke to him. 

                “Kiddo, we’ve got the whole weekend coming up,” he murmured. “How about you and me head to the lake, catch some fish?”

                He chewed on the tines of his fork. The lake was vast, big enough to hold plenty of fish, monsters, and there were only so many worms in the world. Feeling sorry for them, he refused.

                “Okay…” His father’s drooping shoulders were steadied by his mother’s comforting hand.         

                “Kellam, are you sure you don’t want any dessert?”

                “Not when I have you.” Inigo tried not to wrinkle his nose too much when he kissed the inside of her wrist. “Of course, some other weekend.”

                The thing was, he didn’t know how death worked, how maybe all of his waiting would eventually come to an end.

 

                When Severa sauntered up, he’s kneeling with most of his body in the dessert display. “Your friend doesn’t come by much anymore,” Severa ventured, glaring at him, but that was just her face, Inigo figured. “You and Broody, Dark and Leather have a falling out?”

                Last he saw, the skin around Gerome’s eye was a bruised purple and after a few odd phone calls which tapered off to nothing, they hadn’t really seen each other in weeks. With such clear avoidance, he couldn’t bring himself to visit the garage. He took out a day-old pie to put in the back, gut twisting. “Yeah, he’s busy I guess.”  
                “Not drinking crappy cups of coffee.” She snapped her gum between her molars. “He don’t know what he’s missing.”

                He made a noise of agreement. “How’s shake girl?”

                She coughed, beating her chest to keep from aspirating her gum. That was a glare. “Her name’s not _shake girl_ , have some class.” She shoved a meringue pie at his face. He scrambled not to leave a thumbprint in it. “Noire’s fine, wants to go to a music festival upstate. I’ve never heard of any of them but it’s a long trip.” She shrugged with an irrepressible grin.

                Closing the case, he stood up, not quite sincere in his own. “That’s… great, Sev.”

                “Watch it, mister!” Even though she had to look up, she jabbed her finger at his chest like punctuation, a promise. “Anyways, you bring him back here. He left good tips.”

                “Sure thing, dollface.”

                “Choke.” She snatched up a stack of menus as a family slid into the corner booth.


	5. Break it and Shake it

                Inigo wedged the phone in the scoop of his neck and shoulder. Slide-drag-wait. Garage doors whisper-creaking on their metal tracks, the small windows were empty black squares, shop for all the world abandoned. Dial-tone. One lead left to follow before he resigned himself an unwilling castaway. Slide-drag-wait. The rotary ticked off the sequence of numbers part of his mind reserved without permission.

                “Hello?”

                “Hey...” Inigo stuttered, script obliterated by the hesitant timbre of Gerome’s voice. “This is Inigo, ah, from the Astra—”

                “It’s been a while, Inigo,” Gerome admitted. “You made it home alright?”

                “I managed without Minerva around. Took the bus… the usual.” Inigo tried his best to match that guarded tone but his ear burned against the receiver. He swallowed. “You know Severa missed you at the diner.”

                “Who?”

                “Never mind.” He raked a hand through his hair, cutting to the point. “Listen, maybe you leave your friends at the drop of a hat, but I… I don’t.” Fidgeting with the phone cord, he rounded into concern, the shiner Gerome sported flashing in his mind’s eye. “Are you okay?”

                “Sure,” Gerome said, confused as though he hadn’t been asked that in a long time. “Why?”

                “Sure,” Inigo echoed, the extended quiet digging under his skin. “Because your eye looked awfully ready for an eggplant parmesan.”

                “That bad, huh?” Gerome’s easy laugh washed over him in a wave. “Well, it’s healed up now.”

                “I’ve been missing out.” The tension in his shoulders eased with the familiar territory.

                “Only on the most riveting parts of my life. Mrs. Iverson came in to fix up the family car yesterday. With her entire family.” That encounter couldn’t have ended well. “They’re a nightmare.”

                “Sounds like you could use a stiff one,” Inigo hastily corrected himself. “If you drink. You should get a drink, I mean, we should go to a bar and get drinks. Together.”

                “I could manage that.”

                “The Argent? It’s not the nicest but the beer’s cold.” Settled on a place, Inigo redirected the conversation, relief washing over him.

 

* * *

 

 

                The Argent was a block and a half away from Inigo’s apartment, in the sweet spot where loiterers thinned out but the buildings crowded under a long line of awnings and sputtering streetlamps. Huddled between a dry cleaners and a liquor store, the Argent was a long-standing establishment with its peeling signage and rarely cleaned windows, lighthouse beacon lamps above narrow tables attracting barflies and card-sharks alike. Perhaps a testament to its rumored former mob ties, the interior bar was a rich wood, sturdy despite the nicks and scratches the rowdier clientele left behind. Cheap paneling and beaded curtains acting as dividers fault of the struggling management, it was a place that tried to be everything, from the television nestled in a corner to pool tables in the back with a derelict jukebox.

                Inigo swung open the door, haze of cigarette smoke coating the ceiling wafting into the cool night after him. It was the kind of place Inigo had eased himself into a kinship until it was familiar. Still, he froze mid-wave in returning the bartenders’ greeting, not expecting Gerome to be at the bar already at least half a beer in with Brady at his elbow.

                Tongue cemented behind his teeth when Brady noticed him, Inigo made his way over trying to gather what remained of his excitement from the dusty floor. Gerome had positioned himself in the furthest chair available so Brady functioned as a blockade. Sitting beside Brady, Gerome became a swatch of red hair and an ear, a terrible painting. There’s a napkin on the bar in front of him with a small pyramid of peanut shells. Gnawing at his bottom lip, Inigo fished for his wallet to pay for a single beer.

                “Start over for Inigo’s sake.” Gerome peered over the top of Brady’s messy hair, addressing him for the first time. “Trust me it’s a good story.”

                “A’ight, so this guy comes up to me, mind you I ain’t seen him before a day in my life— hey barboy change that back—” Brady rubbed peanut fragments onto his shirt, glaring at the bartender who continued fiddling with the television knobs. “Ain’t the customer always right? I got money on this game!”     

                Once the screen wavered to the proper channel, Brady took the sour look he’s given on the chin into retelling his story. Inigo doesn’t have it in him to listen with Brady darting glances at the score so there’s even less motivation. He sipped his beer, morose in watching the foam cling like moss to the sides of the glass. Zoned out, a familiar name spilled from Brady’s lips.

                “Owain?” _No way_.

                “Yeah? So poor Libs tryin’ to corral them all and it’s been five minutes tops but wit a dozen kids hollering at the top of their lungs behind Owain like a pied piper, he—”

                “Wait, you know Owain?”

                Brady grunted. “Yeesh, I thought I liked you.” After tossing a couple peanuts down the hatch, he took a swig from his drink. “You some kinda fan of his or something, pal?”

                “Not after seeing him try to woo my next-door neighbor.” Second-hand embarrassment washed over Inigo at the memory and he snorted.

                He smacked the counter. “How bigguva’ train wreck was that.”

                He’d been totally gaga over her. Inigo mimed an explosion with his hands, mouth making the necessary sound effects. “You have no idea.”

                Brady barked out a laugh. “Small world.”

                Inigo couldn’t help but agree. He ordered another beer. “He come by the center often?”

                “Nah, but he still does the holiday showcase. He’s trying this whole writing plays thing, I don’t know, I mind my business.” Standing up, Brady clapped them both on the back. “Nature calls.”

                “You’ve never done that in your life,” Gerome called over his shoulder as Brady disappeared behind a beaded curtain. “You were right about the beer.”

                Inigo hummed in response. “It’s pretty good stuff.” The wicker basket tipped on its’ edge as Inigo grabbed a handful of its stale contents. Hands busy, he chased his spoils with a deep pull, draining the last of it. A subtle red staining his face, Gerome gazed into his own beer like it held questions or answers he couldn’t fathom. Gerome hailed down the bartender and it wasn’t in ordering another.

                Easy conversation, touch and clarity, each traded for contradiction. The bartender slid the chilled glass Inigo’s way but he drew squiggles into the condensation with the tip of his finger.

                Brady dropped down in his seat, whooping as he checked the television. “Owain owes me a twenty. Better head cross town before he tries to weasel out it. Eh, you can cover this Gerome.”

                “You’re a real man of the cloth,” Gerome drawled after Brady who tipped an invisible hat as he strode out of the bar.

                Inigo whipped around. “He’s a priest?!”

                “Not officially, no.” Gerome tasted his new drink. “But he’s still a solid guy.”

                Inigo blinked at the foreign looking glass. No one actually ordered anything here except beer—no one meaning himself— and it left him singularly squinting at the contents, leery of cobwebs floating in the clear liquid. The glass, strange in Gerome’s big hands with its delicate stem, left him fascinated. “What is that?”

                “A martini.” Focused on a gouge in the bar’s surface, Gerome paused like it just occurred to him he had to carry a conversation on his own. “Have you never had one?”

                “Nope.” The word burst on his lips and he bit down, quelling the urge to say it again for how Gerome’s gaze drifted.

                “Go ahead.” He nudged the martini into the valley separating them.

                Olive spinning on its’ skewer as Inigo swirled the glass in a gentle arc, he gave it a tentative sniff. Held up to the light, Gerome’s chin rested on his palm and through the glass the amused quirk to his mouth appeared graciously wide. “Stop stalling.”

_Not if you keep looking at me like that._ What the hell. He tossed back a mouthful. Rubbing alcohol would have been kinder to him. He resisted the urge to gag. Sliding the glass back into Gerome’s reach, he chased the burn with more beer.

                “That’s an acquired taste.” Inigo willed himself as placid as a summer lake despite the warmth suffusing his core.

                “Not a fan of vodka I see.” He plucked the olive from the near empty glass, yanking it from the toothpick like a shish kebab.

                “Not a fan of martinis, you mean.”

                Gerome finished chewing, toothpick a tiny baton twirling through his fingers. “This is made with vodka.”

                Inigo wrinkled his nose, propping his head up on his hand in a mirror of Gerome’s prior posture. All at once the space between them narrowed, a net of freckles Inigo never noticed before draped over his cheekbones, the bob of his throat as he drank. His lips were wet, shiny with the taste of vodka. Or olives.

                “What?” Nothing.

                Inigo slumped against his own arm and laid his cheek against the cool lacquer of the bar. Hidden in the curve of his private cage he closed his eyes, a veil to the magnetic strain of courage compelling him to make mistakes. He shook his head and ran a hand through his hair. There’s only a heaviness to Gerome’s gaze now. It tilted his discretion, nothing to be done save push and see where the trail led him. Feast or famine. Tonight was the latter, camaraderie of their meetings diminished without the haven of a boxing ring. It struck him how comfortable Gerome was there.

                “Been back to Basilio’s lately?” Inigo sloshed lukewarm beer around in his glass. “You had to’ve picked up that black eye from somewhere.” He leaned back in the chair, studying his unblemished profile. Gerome focused on the toothpick in his hands ticking back and forth like a metronome.

                “Yeah, I’ve been... around.” Gerome thumbed at his nose, hanging his head. “Getting private training sessions, and Basilio is one of the best, you know. It’s no big deal, I’m probably taking less hours at the shop for nothing.”

                “Gerome, that’s a huge deal.” Inigo smiled for the sincerity of it to convey what he couldn’t touch. “Something to be proud of.”

                “It’s a start.” Mumbled to the rim of his glass, he slapped the toothpick flat against the bar with finality.

                “A really good one, I’ll see you on television one day.”

                “But you would have front row seats,” Gerome said earnestly, with a type of bluntness as if it were a given. “Um. Unless you wouldn’t want them.”

                “Of course.” A space for him. Inigo angled in his chair. “I would want it. Tell me when you have your first fight, I’ll be there.” Inigo smacked his palm against the cracked leather seat between them and hopped up. “Come on, let’s do something I could actually kick your ass in.”

                “I doubt it.”

                “What confidence, you don’t know what it is yet,” Inigo complained, stubbornly not releasing hold on his tense shoulders as Gerome held onto his martini like a lifeline. He lowered his pitch, pushing toward the backrooms. “Stop stalling.” Gerome grumbled he didn’t sound like that, Inigo begrudgingly letting go when the line of curtains whispered and clacked behind their passage into the dimly lit room.

                Two billiard tables awaited them, one so beaten it served no other purpose than taking up space as though the owners were too sentimental and stubborn to leave it on the curb. The good table was positioned under lackluster spotlight, water-spots on the felt with enough good grace to hide in shadowed corners. Gerome abandoned his martini on the table’s edge. Reaching underneath, Inigo fitted billiard balls, slightly grimy from use, inside the triangular rack.

                “Stripes or solids?” He dropped the cue ball onto the green.

                “Up to you.” Gerome focused on the jukebox, backlit by its golden glow. The white lines of his checked shirt stood out, a quarter dropped with a heavy plunk tumbling around the machines’ insides.

                “Alright.”

 

 

                “Y’know,” Inigo began, the stale taste of beer on his tongue. “We should go again, a wager this time.” Resetting the game, he shook the rack, jostling sound melding with fading music. Leaning a hip against the edge of the billiard table, he studied Gerome’s silhouette.

                Framed by the light emanating from the jukebox, a broad shoulder lifted in nonchalance. “Only a fool would take a losing bet.”

                “You never know, it might be closer than the last.” A worryingly few number of stripes were left before Inigo sunk his winning shot. Cue stick in hand, Inigo leaned against the machine, Gerome twisting its’ knob, pages of songs drifting. “What are you looking for?” His slight buzz from alcohol made the question a pleasant hum.

                “This machine must not have it.” Gerome stepped back, making space for him. “You choose something.” Gerome stood next to him, hand resting on the edge of the jukebox lit amber from within, loose and easy when it could so easily form a fist.

                “How gracious of you…” Pleased at how his face seemed to warm at such teasing, Inigo flipped through the library. Skimming titles until one in particular caught his attention, a rush of nostalgia whispered between a short breath.

                “Inigo?”

                “Ah, it’s nothing. Just…” Though he shook his head as if to banish the brunt of these memories, the words tumbled from his mouth. “My parents used to love to slow dance wherever they were, whenever this song came on. I was so sick of it. But they never tired.” Something pulled tight in his chest, and he let the first notes of the song Gerome chose play out. “Then my father bought the record, he always tried to make Mother happy. It’s good to remember. I haven’t heard this song in years.”

                “I see.” Gerome captured all the weak light in the room to focus on him and he shifted under its weight. “My friend’s parents got a divorce, too. That must have—”

                “What? No.” The very idea sent a puff of not quite laughter from his lips. “They would never. He passed away years ago.” His tongue tripped but his voice remained steady.

                “O-oh, I’m sorry.” Awkward with a clarity that belied the stinging curl lingering in the huff of his breath, Gerome hemmed him in with a forearm, halting his progress toward the table.

                “You didn’t know. All in the past.” He passed the cue stick back and forth between his open palms. With Gerome’s arm out in a turnstile gesture, Inigo spun on his heel, cue outstretched, a slight clink his only warning.

                “Still, I—”

                They both flinched as the glass shattered on the floor. Inigo stepped back, swearing under his breath before dropping to pick up the pieces.

                “Inigo, stop.”

                “It’s my fault.” Inigo cupped another chunk of glass in his palm.

                “It’s my glass. Have more care, you’re bleeding.”

                Huh. So he was, thin lines of red at his fingertips bloating into fat drops. “I’ll live.”

                “Don’t slice up your hand anymore.” The curtain whispered behind Gerome as he strode away, not loud enough to cover his muttered question of whether this dump had a first-aid kit.

                And Inigo couldn’t help the soft smile spreading over his face without permission. Trashing the bulk of the broken glass he carried into the restroom, he rinsed his hand under the faucet. Pink trails swirled down the drain. He grabbed a wad of paper towels.

                Perched on the edge of the table, he scuffed his shoe against the floor waiting. His hand began to sting in earnest. The jukebox still playing, he eyed the cue stick as an emaciated dance partner. He was peeling back the makeshift paper towel gauze every few moments to examine the growing pinpricks of blood when Gerome walked in with a scowl.

                The kit dropped onto the table beside him and Inigo twisted to get a better look.

                “Expired peroxide…” 

                “Oh, it’s older than my grandmother.” Gerome stood between his legs, reaching out. “Give me your hand.” Inigo could protest, a roughness to match their banter, but his expectations collapsed.

                He’s gentle.

                Hand cupped within his palm, Inigo stilled. Gerome daubed a peroxide soaked ball of gauze against the cuts. Breathe in, breath out. Nothing wrong with a bit of whining, well worth it to see his brow scrunch in annoyance.

                “There’s no way that hurts, it’s nearly water.”

                Inigo hummed _maybe_ , a moment before the first notes of his parent’s song played. “I admit this isn’t how I’d imagined tonight.”

                “And what did you imagine?” Gerome asked, holding his gaze while flicking the pink spotted gauze onto the table.

                “Not bleeding for one.” Masked by a half-hearted shrug, Inigo squirmed and his grip tightened. “So much trouble just for a few cuts and scrapes.”

                “I left the glass sitting right there, I wasn’t paying attention either— it was my fault.” Gerome busied himself with searching for a bandage. “So if it’s any trouble, it’s been to you. I’m not used to looking after things. Or people. At least I can mend you.” He held up the cloth as a prize.

                “Even if you are terrible— I’ll be more careful next time,” Spoken with all implied conviction, Gerome busied his hands with tidying up. “Stick to ordering cups of coffee, less likely to break those.”

                “Well, some glasses are made of stronger stuff.” Inigo said, distinctly aware he’s not really talking about that anymore. He flexed his wrapped fingers, heartbeat thudding in two places. “Hey, still works. Thanks.”


End file.
